Utter chaos in those last few moments before they enter the
rest of the big, wide world.

Nash raced off to the chicken coop and within a few seconds the world came to a stop.

In that same distracted,
unpredictable moment, Shaw looked me deep into the eyes and said, “Mom, do I
have special needs?”

I froze. I was silent. It seemed to last an unordinary matter of time.

Shaw continued, “I feel like the
freak of the family.”

These words can/will silence a mother. At that moment, my entire world stopped. His chocolate eyes looking up to me for all the answers.

As if in slow motion, I bit my lip to fight the
instantaneous tears - how can they appear at an instant? I just pulled him close to me.

I don’t know if I was biding time or in shock. I just wasn't prepared. I honestly
had no idea what to say. What is the answer?

Most of the time, us Moms, we can bullshit our way through….
“Everyone is ‘special’.” “I love you and your brother the same but
differently.” "We are all different." It happens daily: we have no idea what we are doing, but feel
pretty confident responding off the cuff. It may not be Nobel Prize worthy-but
it seems to appease and keep things moving.

This was not one of those times.

This was real and raw and HARD.

The only thing I knew to do was to ask more questions, in my
loss for ability to respond.

“Shaw, what does special needs mean to you?”

“I’m just not smart, Momma.” “I can’t run fast or do Math
and always go to therapy…” onandonandonandonandon.

“I’ve had 20 surgeries.” He continued.

As I listened and struggled for just the right, impactful,
search-ending rebuttal, Shaw said, “This boy in woodworking, he pretends he is
going to touch my shunt and acts like he is disgusted.”

Another awkward pause. (Why
don’t I know what to say?!)

“Disgusted.” From my seven-year-old rang through my ears and
my silent tears began to boil.

At the moment, the horn beeped, doorbell rang and our world
fast-forwarded back to reality and it was time to go to school.

NOOOOO! Not okay. This is critically important. Character-defining.
Truth-telling. These are the moments that all parent fear and long for – to
teach… to make a tiny difference in this relentless world.

And he was off...

With a harder, more emotional squeeze that he needed, the
door closed. I buried my head in my hands and tried to catch my breath for the next five minutes.

That, my friends, is the
beginning.

Of course, I want to kick that kid’s teeth in – that’s only
human, right? And of course, I fault the parents for not teaching this child to
respect differences and honor them. And of course, I cried a full 24 hours at
the thought that my child is finally aware – or at least vocalizing – that he
knows he is different and how I can’t protect him.

Those that know me well, know I went into OCM (Operation
Crazy Mom) to try to ‘fix’ it. (Don’t
tell my husband).

I emailed his teachers – not the woodworking teacher -but his two everyday teachers that I respect
and admire and have survived hundreds of students and grown children. I call on
them often, like therapists. (Come to
think of it, I should pay them).

I talked to his Occupational Therapist. “What happens when
kids aren’t kind? How do you explain the therapy they receive and why?”

Our sweet school even had a teacher with a sibling with a
shunt, who offered to talk with Shaw about his relatable experience.

Personally, I went to work on how to organize my thoughts:

How do we encourage building confidence when we can’t
control what others say?

What language do we use – modified from years past to adapt
to his maturity – to explain what he has endured and overcome?

How do my husband and I get on the same page because one of
us says ‘don’t over react’ while the other (me!) wants to address
head-on?

I spent hours last night writing down my thoughts to be
prepared for the next surprise inquisition that of course won’t come until I am the least
prepared.

We talked with the boys, probably with too many words and
for far too long.

I've learned that the 'talking' is really for parents. Kids take in about 5% - the rest of the words are to appease the adult heart.
Maybe they retained 1/10th and that’s okay. We’ll keep talking. This
isn’t the last time.

Here is the astounding revelation:

Forty eight hours later, our family is racing to the airport
to catch a flight. We leap out of our Lyft, kids weighted down with car seats
and backpacks and we march to the gate to check in. At the moment
we reached the counter, I watched our boys look past me, point, smile and
guilty-giggle (you know the one).

I turned around to see an adult man - about half my size, just a hair taller than my 8-year-old,
staring blanking past my boys, acting oblivious to their very obvious notions.

I’m not proud to type this. Of any family, I was sure we had
this down.

We just had the conversation for God's sake.

We respect others.

We are kind.

We appreciate differences.

God made all of us exactly how he intended.

We were just on the other end of this scenario…

And (after the fire
daggers that shot from my eyes and another two hours of unwanted conversation
followed), I came to the ugly realization of all the work Michael and I
have to do.

These little, beautiful, courageous minds are creative and
loving and naïve. They have no idea how cruel this world and what awaits them in the grueling school years ahead. They are curious and funny and want to make their friends laugh, at any expense. These kids aren’t
mean - but they are desperate to be taught. And it’s obviously not just one
conversation. Instead of a two hour conversation, it is a weekly/daily reminder
to be kind and embrace others.

I don’t know the secret. I was rocked to my core two days
ago and later surprised how resilient these children are to be on the other side that I am so ashamed of. What stands out to me
is how important it is to our children that we keep our finger on the pulse of
kindness. We (as parents) are responsible. We are the ones. We must teach our children to
look those that don’t look like us in the eye and say hello, to invite them to parties and meet them at a lonely lunch table. Those that are
pulled out of class for asthma medicine or diabetes pricks, we should be
extending a pat on the back for being brave or those kiddos that can’t play at
recess, we should grab a book and join them in the shade.

We read the book, Wonder, this year. Just completing it with
the boys felt like a tremendous accomplishment. (Mainly because Mommy cried through every single chapter).

How quickly they forget.

The onus is on all of us to teach our children, to be the example.

Be Kind. Be Kind. Be Kind. Should be our mantra. We are
single-handedly shaping our future and those that will run it. Say it again - every day if you have to. Don't let your children (my children) be the ugly ones. The responsibility is ours.